Grand Theft Auto: Tale of the Troubleshooter
by Big Zane
Summary: Meet Troy Martinez. One of the most dangerous men in the South. But now that he has been forced to return home a eight year exile he's found that a lot has changed. With a powerful enemy slavering for his head Troy needs to retake his old stomping ground and rise enough money to equip himself for war. Who better to help him than the three new rulers of the LS underground? M for GTA
1. Welcome to Los Santos

"Where to?"

"110th Brouge Ave, Davis."

"I'm sorry. Ain't going to happen. Every time I go that direction those fucking Ballas gangbangers think its xmas. I can take you as far as Macdonald Street."

"Whatever."

"Meter ain't working but that's going to cost you a hundred bucks."

"Just…..start…driving."

The slightly built dark-skinned man eased into the backseat of the cab and closed his eyes as the Hispanic driver ignited the engine then eased into the flow of traffic. He closed his eyes so as to avoid looking at the wetback prick who was trying to rob him blind. He closed his eyes in the hope that not looking at the driver would quell the overwhelming urge to push the Hispanic's head right through the windshield. There was once a time where he would have put two in the driver's head before seizing his cab but those days were behind him and had been behind him for a long time, but by god the urges still remained. The black man reached into his pockets looking for a distraction to pass the long cab ride, he felt his wallet and took it out. A quick flick of his fingers opened his wallet to examination. Three thousand and fifty dollars cash. Crisp bills all fifties and hundreds. No coins. Two debit cards, Maze Bank and Pacific Standard. One driver's license. Other various cards that signified bits and pieces of his life. Amunation membership, Bahamas Mamas VIP, **Massionette 9** entrance, Burgarshot Heartstopper voucher, Sub Urban's discount. Despite the seemingly chaotic lay out of the contents there was heavy-handed meticulousness to the chaos; it was a very accurate description of his life.

The name on the driver's license said Troy Joseph Martinez. Thirty years of age. Registered to an address **Marian South Harroline**. Troy knew of at least one man who would pay top dollar to know that that name was once again in San Andreas County. All the more reason to finish his business quickly and then head back to the relative safety of South reluctantly brought himself out of his reverie and opened his eyes. The man settled himself to observe the concrete jungle that is Los Santos as it flew by at sixty five miles per hour. It was a beautiful morning, just a little after nine. They were cruising down New Empire Way on a direct route from Los Santos International. Like most major cities the area immediately surrounding airport was exceedingly developed, Los Santos was no exception. They drove pass well maintained and brightly painted hotels, motels, car rentals, bars, and clubs. The cab passenger also knew from personal experience that by now these streets would be crawling with the less savory flavors of society despite law enforcement best effort to keep them out; pimps, hookers, dealers, and stealers. Everything any tourist could ever want was within a six block radius of the airport. Troy watched the urban sprawl with an impassive face but his mind was whirlwind of emotions. Anger, regret, nostalgia. He had missed home more than he would care to admit. Eight years was indeed a long time.

"Soooo…..first time in Los Santos?"

Troy slowly shifted his attention from the window back to the front of the car. He had almost forgotten about the cab driver.

"Sure. You could say that." Troy answered shortly. No real reason not to mention that he was originally from Los Santos, no real reason but force of habit.

"Then some friendly advice. The area you're heading to is not nice. Especially for a rich looking fella like you."

"You don't say." Troy said with the slightest trace of amusement. "I think I can handle myself."

The driver gave Troy a careful look in the mirror and was quiet for a moment. Troy knew exactly what he saw. The five thousand dollar black Italian silk suit from Didier Sachs fitted him like a second skin and gave an immediate air of sophistication. The gold Crowex, gold chain, diamond cufflinks, and leather loafers completed the image. The man who wore the clothing was much more unassuming. His African American descent was proudly declared in his broad features; sloping forehead, a rather overly large nose, and wide lips. His rather weak chin was covered by a well maintained goatee. He peered out at the world through sharp coffee brown eyes that were constantly roaming back and forth, ever alert for any sign of a threat. The man was rather short, standing at five feet nine inches and couldn't have weighed more than one hundred and forty five pounds. Yet under the expensive clothing his torso and arms were perfectly chiseled and granite hard. His black hair was cut in a low fade fashion. Two tattoos were all that visibly remained of Troy's previous life. One was the letters _BAB _in stylized script on the left side of his neck. The other was the letters _FK _tattooed on the bottom of his left wrist. The first stood for Brough Avenue Ballas and the second stood for Families Killa.

"Oh," The driver said his eyes widening with recognition. He had just sighted Troy's neck tattoo. "Oh. I see."

The man quickly went silent and after a few minutes he awkwardly fumbled with the radio dials. There was a quick buzz of static, a few disjointed conversation and songs, and then the jingle of Weazel News.

_Headlines today. Gang violence reaches an all time high, president declares the situation critical. Tragedy in Palomino Creek when a family of six is burnt to death in their home. Methamphetamine, the nation's leading export. Our top story. Another striking incident of gang violence racks the nation. Earlier today the infamous Chamberlain Hills was once again turned into the battleground of two local street gangs, the Chamberlain Gangsters Families and Plow Ave Ballas, looking to expand their influence. _

"Rise the volume." Troy commanded. The driver complied wordlessly. The former ex banger couldn't help but feel a bit sadden whenever he heard such reports. It had been eight years since Troy had last flown a Ballas flag and it seemed nothing had changed in that time. Ballas and Families were still doing the same bullshit dance; it really was an unbreakable cycle. _Its fucked up,_ Troy thought to himself, _black blasting on blacks while the fucking wetbacks creep up from behind and fuck us all in the ass. But these niggas too dumb to see it. _Even sequestered as he had been up in South Harroline the changing gang dynamics of major cities such as Los Santos hadn't escaped.

_In a horrendous act of senseless violence that has become all too commonplace in modern Los Santos these self proclaimed kings of the streets opened fire upon each other in the middle of the day upon a very busy intersection. The carnage only worsened when local law enforcement responded to the threat and were quickly engaged by the heavily armed gangsters. Fifty people were killed and as many wounded before the National Office Of Security Enforcement managed to reach the scene and control the situation. This latest incident may be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back as thousands of citizens took to the street in protest. The mayor has promised a crackdown effective immediately and the state has pledged its full support. this morning an enraged Barry Owasu addressed the nation. _

Troy listened keenly as the charismatic black president gave an eloquent speech about the state of crime in the nation and his plans to attack all gangbangs as ruthlessly and mercilessly as they were fond of attacking each other. Troy had scant patience for politician but he did respect **Barry Owasu**, he guessed it was much in the same way that an outlaw respected a very tenacious and brilliant lawman. Haters be damned, the first black president was not a benchmark in American history that one could scoff at. Even though Owasu was not a hundred percent black Troy still saw him as the epitome of what a black man could become if he put his mind to it. Despite what was said by many Owasu actually did good work in Troy's opinion. He may not be the best president that America had ever had but he was far from the worst.

The rest of the hour passed slowly with Troy listening to the various crimes happening around Los Santos. After awhile, he once again reclined back into the seat and closed his eyes. He was just settling down for a nap when the cold fluttery feeling in his gut, the same feeling that he had come to know and respect after serving two tours of duty and spending a life time on the street, told him that there was a very likely possibility that his day was about to go very sour very quickly. The cab had stopped in a lane of traffic at a red light. Without making it overly conspicuous Troy opened his eyes and fixed his attention upon the rearview mirror.

It took almost five minutes for the light to change and the cab to start moving again. It was only then that Troy spotted what he was looking for and then he saw it only because he knew exactly what to look for. Black. Albany Washington. Deeply tinted windows. A perfect tail except for the fact that they were always exactly three car lengths away, it was too text book. Whoever his tail was they weren't real professionals. Real professionals would have known to vary the routine.

The cab was now located on intersection of Villa and Brimstone Ave. Troy did some mental calculations. He was still almost three miles away from Brough Avenue. He mentally added a few facts to the scenario. He was unarmed whereas whoever was trailing him was probably armed to the teeth. There was a very likely chance that whoever was in that vehicle would try to kill him or capture him and take him to someone who would eventually kill him, whatever this was it was definitely not a social call. Troy silently cursed settled himself down for a wait. There was nothing else he could do until the cab stopped. Hopefully the tail would be satisfied with just tailing for now. Although the fact that he had picked up a tail within an hour of his arrival made Troy exceedingly nervous. His coming had been known forehand by only a handful of people, each of them a friend. Betrayal was never a good feeling.

The cab turned down into Yaxley Street which was a little less traffic filled, the cab driver picked up the pace. So did the tail. Troy inadvertently sat up and glared at the following car through the rearview, disbelieving that they would make their move so blatantly. The Washington's superior acceleration soon won out. Within a few seconds the black car was almost on the taxi's bumper. The cab driver finally noticed.

"What the fuck?" He said.

"Drive!" Troy shouted out. "Now! Floor it!"

The cab driver looked back at Troy confused and hesitated. The hesitation proved fatal. A dark-clad man rose up out of the sunroof of the Washington wielding an ugly looking HK416 assault rifle like a gun totting bat from hell. Troy reacted with explosive speed; he tossed himself to the bottom of the car and tried his best to curl into a ball. Almost before he had touched the floor bullets started ripping the cab into Swiss cheese, followed by the thunderous din of gunfire. The windshield above Troy exploded inward showering him with glass and powder yet the rain of fire did not let up. Suddenly the car swerved to the left.

"I'm not going to enjoy this." Troy muttered to himself.

A few seconds later the nasty crunch of metal upon concrete sounded out as the cab bounced over the sidewalk and went headlong into the side of building. Troy's head slammed around so hard he was afraid his neck would break, as it was stars and colors exploded before his eyes and excruciating pain racked his body.

"Boy did I call it." He groaned out.

Troy allowed himself to wallow in pain and self pity for a few moments before climbing up from the floor of the vehicle. He crawled over the backseat and then out the broken back windshield. In his haste the spear like shards of remaining glass shredded both clothing and skin causing him to cry out in pain until he finally slid unto the sidewalk with a huff.

A quick look behind him revealed that the taxi man would not be joining him; in fact the only place the cab driver would be going would be the morgue. Troy had little time to mourn the deceased driver. The screech of tires upon asphalt brought him quickly back to reality. He was far from out of hot water. Gunshots once again resounded throughout the street and something hot grazed Troy's temple. He jumped to the left and quickly ducked behind the bumper of the crashed cab. In a split second Troy saw that the building the cab had crashed into was some sort of store. A flickering neon sign above titled the place _Suckalot Videos. _There was no display window, only a rickety looking black door. _Ain't no better alternative, _He thought with a shrug.

Troy made out for the door in a sprint. Bullets nipped at his heels causing him to cringe inwardly but he managed to make it to the door without suffering a debilitating injury. No time to stop and open it. He turned slightly to the side and slammed into the door shoulder first. One hundred and sixty pounds of high speed force versus an old rickety door. The door did not stand a chance. Both the man and the wooden barrier went flying into the store.

With a groan Troy lifted himself up off the ground. He froze for a moment upon looking around. He should have known. _Suckalot Videos…_it just screamed porn shop. Even in danger as he was Troy couldn't help but take a few seconds to observe the various sex Paraphernalia, everything from dildos to cassettes of the legendary Bite starring Candy Suxx.

"I love that movie." Troy muttered to himself.

The store was empty except for a wide-eyed frumpy cashier. Her mouth was opened in a perfect o as Troy hurried over to her.

"I suggest you get the hell out of here." He told her urgently as he seized her by the arm. "There are a lot of pissed off men with a lot of big guns coming in a few."

He dragged her from around the counter and pushed her towards the door.

"Go on! Scram! Beat it!"

The woman screamed and ran for the door. Troy began a silent countdown as soon as she was out the building. By the time he reached five there was a rapid burst of gunfire. His heart once again began pounding. If there was one thing that he was sure of it was that the men out there weren't jumpy amateurs that would shoot at anything that ran. They were trained killers. He had sent the woman out there as bait and they had taken it. They had just proven without a shadow of the doubt that they were here to kill him. This was no kill or capture mission it was a hit. Troy was trapped in a shop and the only way out was pass heavily armed men who had come to kill him. He was unarmed and cornered and he as well as the would-be murderers knew it.

Despite the grim reality of the situation not for a moment did Troy panic. What he did was calmly survey the room looking for a weapon, for some means of defending himself. His eyes alighted on a display case and they widened with disbelief. Troy actually laughed. _That will have to do. _He jogged over and smashed the chosen case with an elbow. Still chuckling to himself in wonder Troy reached in and pulled out something he had only ever seen in a porno. It was a four foot long six inches wide flesh colored dildo mounted on a chainsaw. With a shrug he placed the dildo on the ground and stomped it until it broke off from the chainsaw body. He hefted his makeshift club and gave it a few stiff swings. Solid harden plastic. Not the best bludgeoning instrument but it would do it in a pinch. He set the club aside then seized up a couple vibrating eggs. With impeccable aim Troy threw the eggs upwards one after the other and broke all the light bulbs casting the entire store into darkness. Since there were no windows the only source of light came from the broken door.

Troy picked up his overlarge dildo and made his way deeper into the store; he settled into the darkest corner of the shop and waited. He consoled himself with the fact that the aggressors at least did not have any grenades or else he would already be dead. They would have to come in and finish him personally. He was planning on being as unaccommodating as possible. It had been no more than a minute since the cab had crashed and it took the assassins another ten seconds before they made their move. Three men. Clad in full black and all wearing balaclavas. Each man carried an HK416 assault rifle equipped with a flashlight. Damn. In the distance Troy faintly heard the wail of sirens. Double damn. Whatever happened in the store would have to happen quickly. Escaping the men to be caught by cops would be absolutely no consolation.

The men spread out trying to cover as much ground as possible. They were alert and itchy fingered and as eager to wrap the drama up before the cops arrive as Troy was. One of them was almost upon Troy's hiding spot. He had only to flash his weapon in Troy's direction and the game would be all over. It was time to start the fireworks. Troy dashed out of his hiding spot. Four steps brought him within range. The gunman was well trained and his reaction time marvelous. He wheeled towards the sound of footsteps already squeezing the trigger but Troy had closed the distance. Bullets whizzed so close to Troy's side that he felt their heat while the sound of gunshots in an enclosed space deafened him, not paying that any mind Troy swung the dildo with all his might. It exploded upon the side of the man's head with a thunderous crack. The man staggered slightly dazed. Troy did not miss a beat. He lunged for weapon and seized it by the barrel. The man tried to yank it back but Troy slammed his left knee upwards directly in the man's groin.

His would be killer staggered back with a pain filled moan, that was all the break Troy needed to pull the rifle away. Then quick as lighting he seized the man by the front, spun him around, and wrapped a forearm tightly around his throat. He got the man in place just as gunshots once again sounded through the room. The other two gunmen had now joined the fray. Showing a remarkable lack of empathy for their companion the other two fired at will not heeding the hostage in the slightest. Troy ducked down deep behind the man, thankful for the first time in his life that an enemy was wearing a bulletproof vest. He felt the man's body vibrating as bullet after bullet smashed into it. Blood and brain matter rained upon Troy face as a bullet punctured the hostage's skull. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head to try and clear the stinging blood from his eyes.

With a growl Troy stomped the corpse in the small of the back and sent it flying into the direction of the lead storm. Almost as soon as he had kicked he had tossed himself to the left to take cover behind some shelves. Hearing running footsteps Troy blind fired around the corner with the recently acquired assault rifle. He was rewarded with the satisfying sound of a pain-laden scream.

"Come on you punk ass mothafuckas!" Troy shouted out. "I'll murder all of ya! I'm a send you back to your boss in a matchbox!"

He continued shooting, answering the shots being fired at him shot for shot. The sounds of sirens had gotten even louder in the interval. To Troy, that was as good a signal as any that it was really time to haul ass out of there. Holding the gun up towards the ceiling Troy kept on firing while jogging to the opposite end of the shelf. The doorway was clear and only a few feet away; he was hidden from the two gunmen by the shelf. It was risky, but so was staying in the store. Troy took several deep breathes before streaking towards the door for all he was worth. Shots sounded out behind him but he managed to clear the doorway without being hit. Once outside he did not stop running. Instead he increased his speed trying to put as much distance between him and the pack of killers at his back.

There, parked with the front wheels on the sidewalk and the engine still running was the assassins' black Washington. A man clad in black but not wearing a ski mask stood by the driver's door, his back to the store as he kept a lookout. Troy didn't hesitate. He raised the rifle and fired. The man's head erupted like a melon hit with a hammer. Troy paid the corpse not a glance as he tossed open the door and leapt into the Washington. He gunned the engine and pulled out so quickly he slammed into a pink Feltzer. Just then the two remaining gunmen exited the porn shop guns blazing. Cursing under his breath Troy went low in the seat so as to have his head below the dashboard. It wasn't a moment too soon as bullets shattered the windshield showering him with fragments. Slamming the vehicle into drive Troy yanked at the steering wheel and floored it. The Washington swerved unto the street and then shot forward like a race horse out of its stable.

"Better luck next time bitches!" Troy bellowed out with a laugh. His only reply was more bullets. Troy kept on laughing as he swerved through traffic, competing with dozens of other drivers who were as eager as him to get away from the bullets. This little diversion had just added a whole slew of complications but Troy wasn't too overly alarmed. To be honest nothing in his life had ever been simple so a few complications added an air of familiarity which comforted him. As it was he had the sinking feeling that a lot more bullets would be flying before it was all said and done. Troy switched on the radio to Radio Los Santos and hummed along _'Bitches Love Sosa' _by Chief Keef as he continued heading towards Brouge Street. Back home for less than two hours and already one attempt on his life. _Welcome home to good old Los Santos._

* * *

**((So after a long hiatus Big Zane is back on the gta fanfiction scene. Meet Troy Joseph Martinez. My latest OC character, a man of many talents and few scruples with a very interesting past. This story takes place after the events of GTA 5 but may include elements from GTA IV so expect to see returning characters from both. **

**PS I haven't forgotten about Ant and the cast of MOB Story but right now I've kinda lost the muse for them. Fair not though, Ant was one of my favorite characters so he shall be returning. Maybe he even makes an appearance in this tale. Who knows. ;)**

**As for a few of the vocab I think may need clearing up. **

******Massionette 9-The Club ran by Gay Tony Prince in GTA IV The Ballad of Gay Tony.  
**

******Marian South Harroline- Parody City of Atlanta Georgia created by Stelm for his fanfiction GTA: South Harroline. **

******President Barry Owasu- Parody of President Barrack Obama used by so many people that I forget who actually created it. .-.  
**

******That's all for now. Read, Enjoy, then leave a review. **


	2. Ye Ole Hood

**Back with another installation. This one was more informational then action-pack. Fear not though that shan't be the norm. Stelm and Human thanks for the first reviews. Onward. **

"Byron. It's Jim."

"You already delivered that surprise package?"

"Not yet. I just reached. Funny thing though, someone ruined the surprise. The client knew I was coming."

"How do you know?"

"I had a welcoming party."

"That complicates the situation."

"What I said."

"But you should still deliver the package. It's already been paid for. We'll just have to ignore the fact that the surprise been spoiled."

"Okay I'll deliver it and be home by seven."

"You do that. In the mean time I'll find out who called ahead and spoiled the surprise. That's against company policy."

"You do that. I'll call you back with any further developments."

The line went dead and Troy swiped a finger across the screen of his **Drone Universe M III** returning it to its locked screen. He was sitting in the back booth of a Burgershot located on Macdonald Street. The wrappers of a Beef Tower, a Bleeder Burger, a Moo Kids Meal, and a large cup of **Funkin Screw** were on the sticky table before him. A near death experience always made him ravenous. Troy absentmindedly roll the toy he had received from the kids meal between his fingers and the table surface, it was a figurine of Dick from the cartoon **Republican Space Ranger. **Even though the satirical cartoon was one of his favorite shows his mind was far from the antics of Commander, Butch, and Dick. Instead he was figuring his next move.

One of Troy's favorite actors had once so aptly said "When you can't see the angles anymore then you're in trouble", it was advice he had done his best to live by. He sat quietly staring down into the remains of his Funkin Screw and tried to think of all the angles. His name was Troy Martinez but few enough knew him by that name and of those few even less knew he was still alive. Everyone else who mattered knew him only by the moniker that he had earned almost five years ago: The Troubleshooter. He had earned the nickname by being very proficient in his line of work, finding the source of a client's trouble and shooting it. He had earned a reputation for competence and speed, getting even the knottiest job done in a reasonable amount of time and with a minimum amount of complications.

The more Troy examined it the more he came to the realization that his entire life had been geared towards his current profession. His childhood and youth had been spent right there in the mean streets of LS, not five blocks away from the Burger Shot that he was currently sitting in. An absentee father and a base head mother had seen him go down the wrong path quite early in life. By the age of fourteen he had been a full fledge member of the then Front Yard Ballas set. Troy couldn't help but grin as he reminisced about his time spent running with the gang. He remembered those years fondly but memory had a funny way of making everything seem better than they had been. When Troy had been an active Balla gang violence had reached its peak and the war between the Ballas and the Families had been as fierce as anything in the Middle East in present day. Fiercer even. Troy well recalled getting into gunfights to and from school on an almost daily basis. Even then though, he had known that there was more to life than gunning down random men in an endless cycle of violence and self motivated he had made his way through high school and then through Los Santos University, sometimes he had had to sell dime bags to support himself and many a night he had spent hungry but he never gave up.

Troy picked up the cup of soda and swirled it absentmindedly as he continued his reflections. He thought back to the way that the gang had always supported him through it all even though he had gradually distanced himself from them. He broke away from the Ballas completely when he had been employed by **Merryweather Security** in two thousand four. Even though he had only made selection because the company had been looking for as much grunts as possible to throw on the front line in the Iraq War Troy had made the most out of the situation. After two tours Troy had returned back to the states with a repertoire of skills and a love for the high life. For a while he had tried to find honest employment and had jumped from dead end job to dead end job. Then he had said fuck it and he hit the mean streets. Utilizing those skills that he had learned, he did whatever needed to be done to get paid. It was those same skills that had attracted Troy's longest standing employer, mentor, and personal friend. He had been on a job in Liberty City when he had first received a call from Wade Johnson aka The Fixer.

Troy's face masked into a thoughtful frown when his mind crossed to his old friend once more. It was Johnson who had given Troy this assignment that had him returning to Los Santos, a place that he had avoided like a plague for eight years. Troy trusted Johnson with his life but he couldn't get past the fact that Johnson was one of the few people who knew his current destination and thus one of the few who could have betrayed him, hence the phone call. He had called to feel Johnson out but the only thing that he had picked out from the call had been irritation at the unexpected complication. The man shrugged and tossed back the rest of the Funkin Screw. While he couldn't completely rule out The Fixer the more he thought about it the more he doubted that it was his employer. That left only two other possibilities.

Troy got to his feet and stretched mightily. Regardless of this added complication he still had a job to do, that did not change no matter what. The few other customers in the Burger Shot stared at him nervously just as they did when he had first walked in and ordered; he did not blame them for he too would have stared at a battered bloodstained man in a very tattered tuxedo. He definitely had to get clean up, as is he was way too conspicuous. But before that he had something that he had to do. Before he was Troubleshooter the Assassin he had been Big T the Baller. He couldn't stop in without hitting up the old set even though he was unsure of the welcome he could expect. More to point, this latest job would be so big that he would need their help. It was why he had been chosen in the first place. Feeling unusually generous Troy left a fifty dollar tip under a salt shaker for the rather obese pimple face waitress that had taken his order. He was halfway to the door when his senses returned and he turned around walked back to the table and slipped the fifty back into his pocket.

* * *

An hour later found Troy riding down Brough Avenue on a stolen BMX. He was now dressed in a white tees, black stonewashed jeans, White hi-top **Mikes**,and a purple **Boars **snapbackhat. He definitely looked like he had been in a **Binco** explosion but Troy did not care. He was enjoying his literal trip down memory lane. The old hood was almost exactly as Troy remembered it; impoverished, ill maintained, and obviously dangerous. He had missed this place. There was the alleyway where he had jumpily taken a few puffs off his first joint. There was the dumpster that he had once found a chopped up dead body. Over there was the convenience store where he and eight other Ballas had **run a train on **a couple of coked up college chicks, still boarded up of course. It was almost midday so the streets were mostly filled with the hard working low income workers that generally inhabited a poor neighborhood, at that time of the day the folks who generally gave such neighborhoods a bad reputation were not so easily was deep within Brough Avenue when he finally spotted three of them loitering in front of a boarded up liquor store.

Two men and a woman. All of them were African Americans and all of them were dressed with a purple motif. Troy scrutinized their faces deeply as he slowly rode towards them but he recognized none of them. The trio were immediately put off by Troy's approach though. One of them stepped forward to meet him. He was a large strapping black man with filthy dreadlocks that hung past his neck and a scarred brutal looking face. He wore a black undershirt, blue jeans, and purple and black Mikes. A purple bandana was wrapped around his neck. In his hand he carried a bottle of half drunken **pisswasser** beer and the bulge of a gun butt was blatant at his waistband covered as it was by the thin undershirt.

"Yo dog." He called out to Troy who brought the bike to a stop. "Where you from men?"

"Here and there." Troy replied. No real reason not to tell him that by all means Troy could be considered an Original Gansta, no real reason but force of habit. "Burns still kick it around this mothafucka?'

"Who asking?"

The question came from the first speaker's male companion. The other man was shorter by a full head, brown rather than black, and also slightly chubby. He wore a purple Boars jersey with a very prominent B in the smack center of the chest. He also wore brown cargo shorts and black Mike sandals with black socks. He too carried a pint of the same beer.

"A friend." Troy answered evasively.

"Don't sound like no friend to me."

This was from the woman of the group. A petite leggy caramel skinned brunette with slightly crooked front teeth and hazel eyes. She had a long black weave and was dressed in a purple half shirt that revealed her toned stomach and black hot pants along with sandals. A joint of weed was still clutched between two of her fingers.

"Sounds more like a cop." She said staring at Troy with open hostility.

"Look nigga," Said the dreadlocked man. "Only one type of strange niggas allowed up in this mothafucka. Buyers. So unless you buying then you leaving. Not before you pay a fine for trespassing though."

The other two moved in aggressively at the first speaker's word. Troy watched them with mounting amusement. He wasn't really concerned about his chances of taking them down if it came to a fight. However he would prefer avoiding that situation if he could. Assaulting members of your old gang after an eight year estrangement wasn't a good start back to cordial relationships.

"I don't want any trouble. Truth is I'm from around here but from way back." Troy finally admitted. "Been gone awhile now I'm coming home."

"Bullshit ST." The woman said looking at the tall dreadlock man. "This mothafucka a cop. We should smoke his ass right now."

Troy watched them with an emotionless face but yet all his muscles were coiled for an explosive spring. If the man, ST apparently, tried to reach for the pistol at his waistband then Troy was prepared to shove the gun up his ass.

"What's your name homie?" ST asked Troy after a few seconds scrutiny. His eyes had locked unto Troy's 'BAB' neck tattoo.

Troy weighed the pros and cons of answering that question for a long moment. He had just decided that answering truthfully was probably the best bet, maybe one of these youngsters had heard of him, when that funny thing happened with his belly once saw movement from the furthest corner of his left eye. A millisecond later he heard the screech of tire upon asphalt.

It was all the pre-warning that Troy required.

With the lighting quick reaction that only came with training and experience Troy leapt from the bike and dived for the ground. He smacked his head hard enough on the sidewalk to see stars but he paid little attention to that. As soon as he touched the dirty cement of the sidewalk he was already rolling. The sound of automatic gunfire sounded out through Brough Avenue and was quickly followed by the sound of hysterical screaming. Troy managed to leap to his feet in time to see the black Landstalker careening down the road at ninety five miles. Without thinking about it he dived for the body of ST who was laid out in the ground in a pool of blood. The young woman was at his side screaming like a banshee. Troy ignored the sight and reached for the man's waistband. Glock 17. Third generation. Semi-automatic. He jumped back to his feet shooting. The back windshield of the Landstalker shattered from a couple of his bullets but the SUV was already turning into the adjoining Barrack Street.

In its wake it left Brough Avenue in pandemonium. Pedestrians screamed and ran for cover. The few cars that were driving on the street broke the speed limit faster than one could say cop as they sought to get away from the gunfire. Behind Troy the formerly hostile woman kept up an unbroken pitch of wailing now mixed with great gulping sobs. Troy never could stand the sound of a woman's cries. He gingerly poked his forehead where a large welt was now added to his repertoire of minor injuries. The adrenaline was draining away, he suddenly felt very exhausted.

"Shane!" The woman wailed behind him. "SHANE! Ohmygod. Ohmygod. SHANE!"

Troy turned back to them. One last look was more than enough to tell him that the man they called ST was as dead as doornail. His face had been completely obliterated and his chest resembled a pound of tenderized steak. In an offhand manner Troy noted that he now knew the man's name but ST would never knew his. Sirens were already wailing off in the distance.

"You should go." Troy told the young woman. She looked up at him with a tear streaked face. Troy waved a hand towards the left, the general direction of the sirens. "The police are on their way. You should know how it is. If they find you here you'll get pulled in and probably framed."

Troy then looked off to his left where the young woman's other male companion was only now coming out of hiding from under a parked Bobcat pickup truck. For a chubby man he certainly could move. The man looked at his dead companion in shocked disbelief.

"Where is Burns?" Troy demanded stepping to the younger gangster. He looked up at Troy as if though not comprehending his question. Troy's nerves snapped and he seized the gangster by the front of the shirt.

"Where. Is. Burns?" He asked very slowly.

"He-he-kick it up the street. 115th. Teal house."" The man stuttered in answer.

Troy released him then nodded towards the girl.

"You guys better make yourself scarce quick. Take her and go hide."

The man nodded then went over to the woman. Troy stuffed the gun down his own waistband and then began jogging up the street towards lot 115th.

* * *

The house looked like any middle class house that one would expect to find in the ghetto: better than most others in the immediate but not very good on any sensible person's scale. It was a one story bungalow building and the teal paint was flaking off. The waist high metal fence that enclosed the property was rusty and the grass in the small lawn before the house was high and unkempt. Troy opened the very creaky gate then walked up to the door where he knocked. From inside he could hear the faint sound of music and smell the very distinct odor of marijuana. He had been knocking for almost three minutes and was contemplating breaking down the door when it was suddenly flung open.

Troy found himself staring cross-eyed down the barrel of shotgun. He very slowly raised his hand in a gesture of surrender.

"Who the fuck are you?" The voice was deep and rumbling yet slurred from intoxication.

Troy looked above the barrel and to the man that wielded the weapon. The man was shorter than Troy by a head but built like a mailbox. His shoulders were almost twice the size of Troy's own and his arms were like construction derricks. His large protruding chest was like wrecking ball and his stomach rippling with abs. His skin was even darker than Troy's and his kinky hair was styled into cornrows. Most of the left half of his face including his eye and part of his crooked nose was discolored from a past burn wound. The man was wearing nothing but a pair of purple jersey shorts. With the door now open the scent of marijuana was strong enough to choke.

"I said who fuck are you."

Troy was about to answer when the man's eyes widened almost comically.

"Nah. Hell nah." He said with a booming laugh. "Troy? Big T? That you ma nigga?"

He reached out with one hand and roughly dragged Troy into a one-handed embrace that almost crushed the other's ribs.

"Good to see you too Burns." Troy huffed out.

"Get your ass in here. Standing up in the doorway like that attracts the wrong type of attention."

Burns bodily pulled Troy through the door with the same effort he would pull a kitten and then kicked it close. Troy found himself in a gritty den. Faded threadbare carpets covered the rough cement ground and four worn out couches were arrayed around an entertainment set that literally took up one wall. The muted sixty inch flatscreen TV which was the centerpiece of the set was currently showing **Impotent Rage** while the large stereo system below it boomed out _Niggaz in Paris _by Jay Z. A still burning joint was hazardously set on the armrest of one of the couches; on the floor right beside the couch was an ashtray with several still smoldering **roaches**. Some photos of Burns and various men and women were hung up on the other walls but otherwise the room was bare. Two doors aside from the one they had just come through led from the room.

"Sit down ma nigga." Burns said indicating the couches. "Shit. Big T back in the Big D! Welcome home cuzz. Its been way too long."

"Yeah it has." Troy said sinking down into one of the rickety couches with a huff.

"The fuck happened to you?" Burns asked only then noticing the nicks, cuts, and large bruise all over Troy's face. He reclaimed the same seat he had been in before answering the door and slipped the half smoked joint back between his lips.

"A very hard homecoming." Troy said sarcastically. He ran a hand over his cheek. "Ain't even been back in LS for a full day and I've already almost died twice. And the day is young yet."

"The fuck happened?" Burns asked with great concern.

Troy told him everything that had happened since his arrival at LSX. Burns listened attentively, getting more and more agitated with every word that Troy spoke. When he came to the part about ST's death the Balla jumped to his feet and swore viciously.

"He was a good kid." Burns growled. "A good soldier. Didn't deserve to go out that way. No idea who did it?"

"Was too busy dodging the bullets."

"His mom ain't going to take it well. She was her last son. He'll join his three other brothers in the ground. I'll make them pay though. Whoever did we'll bury those mothafuckas."

The two men sank into morose silent for a couple of seconds, each occupied with their thoughts. Troy knew it was all part of the lifestyle that gangbangers lived and what had just happened had happened a million times before he was born and would probably happen a million more times even long after his death. At its heart gangbanging was endless cycle of violence and retaliation. Sometimes Troy thought it would make more sense for both feuding gangs to just agree to shoot some of their own members and save the gas money. It would equate to the same thing. He shook his head and tried to push his negative thoughts to back of his mind. He had grown up in a broken home in one of the most desolate places in America. He knew from personal experience that for young black men in an impoverished neighborhood gangs was part of the heritage. Hell, for young black men in an impoverished neighborhood the gang was all they had.

"What about those assholes that tried to end you in the porn shop?" Burns asked finally stirring. "Any idea who?"

Troy looked at his friend from the corner of his eye and remained quiet. He was wondering how much he could tell Burns. He had known the man since daycare. In childhood they had been inseparable. They had played on the same highschool basketball team before Burns had dropped out. They had both been jumped into the Brouge Avenue Ballas set together. They had looked out for each other in each and every way. The first time Troy had smoked a blunt, drank a beer, and touched a vagina Burns had been there. Then despite an eight year estrangement the burnt face gangster had still welcomed him with open arms and not a hint of hostility. He knew that Burns was solid and unwavering in his dedication to his friends and to his gang. He was one of the few men still around in this new generation who would happily rather take a life sentence rather than snitch out on his team. Troy decided that he had no reason to distrust his friend. More to the point before everything was done he would need Burn's help.

"Yeah. I think I have a pretty good idea who they are." Troy said tapping his finger against the armrest. "Hired killers. Probably x military. More than likely working for one of the most powerful men in LS."

"Who?" Burns asked staring at Troy curiously.

"Martin Madrazo."

"You're fucking joking." Burns said with a chortle. He quickly stopped when he saw the serious look on Troy's face. "You're not joking…why the fuck would Martin Madrazo want you dead?"

"The real reason that I've come back home is to kill him." Troy said locking eyes with Burns. Two pairs of brown eyes met in the house, one set calm and cold as ice the other wide with nervousness and disbelief. No man had ever accused Burns of being a coward but neither had anyone accused him of being suicidal. What he was hearing now frightened him to high heavens.

"Yo T men." He finally replied cautiously. "The fuck you saying? You want to whack the most powerful drug baron in LS? Why the fuck for?"

He glared at Troy now and pushed on without giving his companion a chance to answer.

"Nigga, what the fuck you into? You left the hood eight years ago to go fucking around in Iraq with Merryweather now you back all of sudden and talking about offing Mexican cartel leaders?"

Troy sighed and took a couple of breaths. He knew that this was coming. In order to make his friend understand he would have to explain the situation in its entirety. He really wasn't comfortable disclosing information that could land him in jail to anyone, friend or not, but he knew that in order to get trust you had to give it. With that in mind he spent the next hour running Burns through the last eight years of his life. From his departure from Merryweather up to the latest contract. The gangster listened quietly except to ask clarifying questions at irregular intervals. His face was furrowed into a puzzled expression for the duration of the speech.

"If I hadn't known you as long as I've known myself," Burns said when Troy had finally finished speaking. "I'd say you were full of shit or on crack."

"I'd say the same thing." Troy agreed with a nod of his head. Burns grumbled and absentmindedly ran a hand over his cornrows.

"From Balla to master assassin." He muttered. "Fuck you living the life ain't you? Next you going to tell me you're goddamn **Awesomeman**."

Troy laughed at that but shook his head in disagreement.

"I wish. That would make killing this wetback prick much easier."

"You serious ain't you? You really going try to bump off Madrazo."

"I ain't going to try." Troy said with iron conviction. "I'm going to do it. But I'm going to need help."

"You know I've got your back to death." Burns said without hesitation. He offered his knuckles and Troy tapped it with his own knuckles.

"We going to need the entire gang for this though." Announced Troy. "Especially since I been made and he knows I'm coming. We going to need an army. Only way to take Madrazo now is to go through his entire cartel."

"Ballas vs spics." Burns chuckled. "Since it takes ten of them to make up to one of us no matter how many they've got they're still outnumbered. Wetbacks ain't no match for real niggas."

Troy laughed heartily at that.

"We really going to take on the Madrazo Cartel?" Burns asked one last time more for the sake of asking than anything else.

"We'll take them on fuck em in the ass and then throw em over a bridge." Troy said quoting a song. "And we'll get rich doing it. That I promise. I ain't been a good friend to you or the gang B, I know I ain't. But I'll make it up by putting the Ballas back on top."

"Top. I like it." Burns said with another grin. He offered his knuckles once more and once again Troy tapped it with his own.

**That brings us to the end of another chapter. Just a few terminologies here. **

**Run A Train On- Slang term for multiple men taking turns to have sex on a single woman. Not a gangbang which is usually multiple men having sex with the same woman at the same time. **

**Awesomeman- My spoof of superman. **

**Binco- GTA clothing line specializing in cheap clothing. **

**Impotent Rage- GTA spoof of the captain planet cartoon which also makes fun of liberals on a whole. **

**A Roach- The very end of a blunt of weed. **

**Mikes- My own spoof of Jordan clothing line. **

**Pisswasser- GTA spoof of Budwasser beer. **

**Merryweather Security- freelance security company that features majorly in GTA 5. Parody of Academia/Blackwater. **

**That's all for now. As always read, review, and enjoy. **


	3. Schemes and Plots

**((Time for another chapter. Not very long and is lacking on action But fear not the next chapter will have blood and gore by the gallons. xD. No more chit-chat. Lets go.))**

* * *

Troy reclined back into the couch and looked on with hazy eyes as his best friend paced forward and back in excitement. Burns had always been the excitable sort; it was a good compliment to Troy who was usually calm. The hitman had a can of pisswasser in one hand, his fourth since he had arrived, and a rolled up joint of high grade marijuana in his other. It had been almost an hour since the second near death experience and yet to Troy it felt like mere minutes ago. He took a deep draw off the weed and held it in for a few minutes, damn it was good to be alive.

"The thing is T," Burns was saying. "The thing is its not as easy as it was back in the day to mobilize the troops if you know what I mean. From what you's saying this shit going to be large scale. We going to need more than the BAB. Sounds like we might need all the sets in LS."

Burns stopped pacing and looked directly at Troy rubbing his knuckles in an absentminded desire to punch someone.

"Yeah." Troy nodded his agreement. He rolled the stick of weed between a fore finger and thumb, watching the smoke curling up off the burning tip. "I was thinking the very same thing. Madrazo gone underground. He's been a paranoid wreck ever since some psycho kidnapped his wife and cut off his right ear. We going to have to draw him out. We've determined that the only way to do that is to really put the pressure on his gang and assets."

"But the problem is we ain't tight the way we use to be in the nineties. We still recovering from the way them Johnson boys put it on us back in 94. Damn near wiped us out."

Troy shuddered and shook his head in agreement. He could never forget that dark time when a man had damn near singlehandedly wiped the Ballas off the map of Los Santos. Those had been dark days and Troy had lost a lot of friends. As it was the Ballas had lost all a vast portion of its territory and were still trying to reclaim a lot of what had been theirs up to present day.

"Whatever happened to them fool?" Troy asked curiously.

"Last I heard he was up in Venturas." Burns replied. "That was a while back though. He don't bang no more though. And we caught that busta ass big brother of his slipping in 05; we put him in the ground and took over Grove Street."

"The Ballas run the Grove?" Troy said incredulously. That was something he had never expected. Grove Street had been a bastion of the Families since time out of mind.

"Yeah we rolled right over them." Burns said with a chuckle. "They were on the out already though because they stupid mofos. The money that bitch ass nigga Carl was pumping into that busta ass gang was barely enough to keep them afloat with Sweet prohibiting them from dealing."

Burns took a swig from his own beer can and then gave a sigh of contentment before continuing.

"Stupid move. It's the twenty first century. At the end of the day carjacking and muggings only get you so far in the streets. If you really want to see paper you've got to deal." He continued before taking a seat in the couch beside Troy's.

"Everyone but Sweet and that lapdog brother of his realized that. A lot of Grave Street bitches switched over to our side to make the real dollars. A lot of other just left. The few fools that remained we mowed through because we got our self some top of the shelf shit with our drug money."

Troy nodded in understanding and took another swallow of beer. Sweet Johnson had been infamous for his anti-drug stance. It was a stupid sentiment and the only thing that it had accomplished was alienating a lot of his gang and making it easier for the Ballas to take them all out.

"But that was a long time ago," Burns said shaking his head. "And moving back to point we ain't what we use to be back in the day. We be set-tripping now, Ballas be blasting each other as often as we blasting spics and leprechauns."

Troy glared down at his can but said nothing, his mind was already going in a thousand different directions. Burns pushed on, taking the silence for a prompt.

"Aside from that we starving dawg. The fucking eses got the market cornered. They get better quality coke than us at a much cheaper rate from their fucking Mexican connect. They ain't even have to sling on our corners, our customers go to them. They ain't the pushover bitch asses they used to be. They organize now, more than us. under **La Onda** or some shit like that."

Troy had heard of the Mexican Mafia also known as La Onda. They were a prison gang wielding enormous power on the streets. Rumor had it that with a few exceptions they were now in control of all the Hispanic gangs in San Andreas. If that was true then they were certainly a force to be reckoned with. The wetback gangs might individually be bitches but if nothing else they had numbers, a lot of it. _Boarder jumping mothafuckas, _Troy thought. He hated them. In his mind they were the real enemy. They might beef with the Families too but at the end of the day the Families were just other niggas in the same position as the Ballas. In Troy's mind though, the eses on the other hand were more akin to foreign invaders. _The boarder hoppers are the true enemy, _Troy thought taking another sip of beer, _Not the Families and not the police. The mothafucking wetbacks. _

"The Madrazo Cartel is one of the most powerful organizations in the country." Troy said out loud. "If we going to gun for them then we'll need some serious equipment and even outside help."

"We don't have the money for either of those things." Burns muttered angrily.

"I know." Troy agreed with a sigh. "This is going to take more work than I thought."

Troy rubbed his forehead with an index finger and a thumb. He had known that the Ballas would be both outgunned and outclassed but he had not dreamed it would be this bad. Before he could take on Madrazo with any hope of success he would need to band all the Ballas set back into the Ballas gang. Then he would need to equip them. The only way to do both those things would be through money. Any set would be willing to forgive any grievance done to them by another set in the chase for currency, at least for a while. Then they would also need better guns, military grade weapons even. That also would cost a pretty penny.

"We'll need a score." Troy said slowly. "A big one. Dime bags and stickups ain't gonna cut it for what I have in mind. We going need major cash. Mills."

"How the fuck we going to get that sort of dough?" Burns asked arching an eyebrow in skepticism.

"I'll get back to you on that." Troy said tapping a forefinger against his forehead. "I'll figure something out."

"You do that." Burns said sarcastically. "In the meantime we've still got shit that needs to be done before we start talking any sort of move. You back but you know how it is, almost all the old niggas that use to run with us and would appreciate that you back…well almost all of them ain't around no more."

Troy grimaced but nodded his head in agreement. He knew the story well enough, almost all of them were dead or in jail.

"I'll put in a good word but the youngins that came up since you been away don't know you so you going to have to earn their respect."

"Yeah I didn't expect anything else."

"And I know exactly how you're going to do it." Burns said throwing back the rest of his beer before effortlessly crushing the can into a ball.

"What you cooking up in that ugly head?" Troy asked a bit alarm at the devious look on Burns face.

"You're going to get with them mothafuckas that did in for ST." Burns said with a chuckle.

"But we don't know who it was." Troy protested.

"So we just cast the net out. And you just hit all our enemies. All of them. Mara Bunta, Vagos, Aztecas, and the fucking Families. You hit them all up and you bound to hit the gang that done it."

Troy looked at Burns with a look of incredulous disbelief but the serious expression on his companion's face told him that this was no joke.

"I can't even begin to tell you all the things that's wrong with this idea." Troy groaned. ""You can't be serious. We can hit every gang in San Andreas and still not get the right people!"

"I'm open to a better suggestion." Burns growled.

"Hit the streets." Troy replied at once. "Put the feelers out. Find out who was actually responsible!"

"Shit'll take too long." Burns snapped. "We've got to show decisive action. We've got to strike back and its got to be today. Don't you see? This an opportunity. An opportunity to show everyone that you'll make a difference. They hit one of us and then you hit all of them back the same day. I can't think of a better scheme for you to get a name for yourself."

Troy swore under his breath but nodded his head in agreement. It would seem that he had no choice but to partake in a bit of senseless murder. _I'll drink to that, _Troy thought sarcastically throwing back the rest of his beer. He made a face at the sour taste but did not complain, it perfectly suited his mood.

"Well ain't nobody ever had shit done by talking about it." Burns announced getting to his feet and tossing the crushed can into the corner.

Troy rose to his feet, crushed his can, and tossed it into the same corner as Burn's.

"Where can I find them bustas?" Troy asked in a resigned tone.

"You can find them Vagos roaches over in Rancho. A set that we been beefing with in particular operates from the Twatville Projects on Jamestown St." Burns said counting off with his fingers. "You'll find the Aztecas roaches in the same area; they bang mostly on the north of Rancho though. If you can try to get with this prick named Flaco, mothafucka held up one of our deals a couple days ago. Cost us three homies and ten g's. Last I heard he held up in the Reacharound Apartments on Vintage St, North Rancho."

Troy absentmindedly cracked his knuckles as he listened. He would be stepping on a lot of roaches that day. If he was honest he didn't really mind.

"The Mara bitches you'll find everywhere, those motherfuckas spread like ticks. First they use to restrict themselves to East LS now they don't respect any boundaries. They're the worst of the lot. Out of all the roaches these fuckers been laying into us the hardest. Roll up through El Burro and murk as many as you can yo. I mean it, take no fucking prisoners. Shoot every fucking thing that moves."

Troy slowly smiled. Despite his initial misgivings his blood lust was slowly rising. He didn't even need a real excuse to kill Marabunta Grande gang members. They were the only people that he could kill without guilt or misgivings. MB-13 as they styled themselves would always had a special place of enmity in his heart.

"Finally there is the leprechauns." Burns's mouth twisted in distaste as he spoke the words. "We don't beef with them as hard as we use to back in the past, been too fucking busy with the wetbacks. But still it ain't all rosy. Was a set of them that done in for D."

That didn't rise much of a reaction from Troy. He had never liked D. Though they had grown up together and backed each other up on more than one occasion Troy could never take the way that D felt privileged by his OG status.

"Damn shame." Troy said with mock sorrow.

"I never liked that wordy mothafucka either." Burns replied dryly. "But he was one of us."

"Then there is that. You know which set murked him?"

"Them Chamberlain Hills fools."

"Tavell Clinton and them?"

"That boy Tavell don't bang no more. Heard the mothafucka sucking some eyetalian's cock down in Liberty. Was his boy Lamar that pulled the trigger on D though."

"That dumb ass mothafucka still breathing?" Troy asked in great surprise. He knew Lamar well despite the Families member being a couple years his younger. He also knew that the Families member was loud-mouthed, flashy, and not to bright. In short Lamar was the type of gangbanger that was usually forcibly removed from the game very early.

"Him and that faggot ass nigga of his Franklin." Burns said.

"Tavell's cousin right?" Troy said not recalling the younger Clinton's face too clearly. That was how it went in the gangbanging game. Most bangers ended up at least lightly acquainted with members of other rival gangs if they survived long enough, much the same way basketball players were familiar with the players of other teams only in the case of gangbanging the acquaintanceship came over the end of a gun than a ball.

"Yeah, that bitch." Burns said with a nod of head. "If the rumors I been hearing are true then we owe them niggas a hell of a lot more than them killing that joke ass nigga D."

"What else did they do?" Troy asked. He then checked his watch and saw that it was now after two in the evening. It was getting late and Troy had preparations that needed to be done.

"You know what I don't really care." Troy continued before Burns could answer. "It doesn't change anything. There's work to be done. Where's the closest Amunation, I'm a need some hardware."

Burns gave Troy the direction and the hitman was relieved that it was only about a half mile away.

"You go take care of business big cuz." Burns said extending his knuckles out. "I'm a spread the word of your return."

"Aight, peace ma nigga." Troy said rapping knuckles with burn. "I'm a see you in a while."

With that Troy left the house his mind already whirling with thoughts. He found a visitor awaiting him outside on Burns's front porch. She was sitting on the step with her back to the door but she got up upon hearing the door open. Troy watched impassively as the same woman from earlier, the late ST's companion, turned to face him. She was still dressed in the same clothes, her eyes were still red and puffy and her face tear-streaked.

"He's dead." She mumbled to Troy. "They killed him. He's dead."

Troy continued watching her wordlessly. He had first had experience of shock and its effect. The bleary wide-eyed look of the young woman before him was a definite indicator.

"He's dead. He's dead. He's dead." She moaned then began sobbing once again.

"I'm sorry for your lost." Troy sympathized.

"I, I saw the way you handled yourself." She sniffed.

"Look lady_I've got to_I don't even know your name."

"Helen," She said wiping the tears from her eyes with the corner of her palms. "But most everyone callse me Huned."

"Helen….. Huned." Troy said trying to step around her. "I know what its like to lose someone and I know you hurting. But I've got to go."

The woman seized his wrist in a vice like grip and stared at him with wide eyes.

"You're going after them. You're going after them I know you are. Let me help! I want to help! They killed him! My best friend since we was little. They killed him. I want to get those fucks! Let me help!"

Troy looked at her with sympathetic eyes and wrestled with the decision before making up his mind.

"I'm sorry." He said to her.

Before she could answer he slammed a clenched fist into her chin in a brilliant textbook uppercut. The woman's head snapped back violently then her body crumpled down as if boneless. Fearing that he might have overdone it Troy quickly bent at her side to check her pulse. He was relieved that it was still strong. Good, she was Burns's problem now. She would be safe enough there on his front porch until he came out. Troy examined her for a moment, noting how young she looked with her face relaxed. The girl was seventeen tops and had obviously never killed before. He would bet a lot of money that she had never seen death up close before either. That would explain her attitude during their first encounter, all brimstone and bluster trying to impress her more hardcore companions. Troy remembered well all those years ago when he had done the exact same thing. Shaking his head he stepped over her and walked away. He was four steps away when he spotted a gray Albany parked alongside the sidewalk before Burn's gate. The hitman shrugged and returned back to the unconscious girl, a few seconds rummaging through her pocket and he had a car key. She had said that wanted to help after all. He entered the car and pulled out the driveway. Keeping half his attention on the road Troy reached for his cellphone and punched in his employer's number. He hoped to god that **The Fixer** knew someone who could help. He would be needing a lot of help before it was all said and done.

* * *

The black Super Diamond basically flew over the road heading from Sandy Shores to Los Santos. It handled like a dream. The passenger in the backseat couldn't help but lament the fact that he was no longer able to take the simple pleasure of pushing the machine to its limit, no he had a driver for that no. He snorted in contempt, getting old was a terrible thing. He glared at his appearance in the window. No longer was he tall, powerful, and handsome. His face was liver spotted and wrinkled. His once brown hair was completely gray. Where his expensive tailored suit had once covered hard muscle they were now stretched across a great belly. All in all he was within his sixties and it showed, the old man sighed at the thought then snapped out of the reverie. On this day he had much greater things on his mind than lamenting his creeping age. He looked at the man sitting to his left with his steely brown gaze.

"Are you absolutely sure its him?" He said. If nothing else his voice had remained unchanged. It was still as powerful and commanding as it had been when he had been in his thirties and invincible. His subordinate looked at him and nodded solemnly.

"Yes, its been confirmed. He made one slip up. Just one. He used an alias that we already know of. As soon as he flew in I was made aware and went down to LSX. I checked the tapes myself. Its him."

"Nine years." The old man said in a thoughtful tone. He sank into reminiscence. He allowed the anger and hate to build up within him once more. Years of a fruitless chase had dulled it although not completely snuffed it away but now that the quarry was within reach the dark emotions came on in a torrent. Ignoring the arthritis he clenched his hands so hard that his fingernails cut into his palms and drew blood.

"We've got him now boss." His companion reassured. "He can't run no more. We don't forgive."

"We don't forget." The old man grunted out, finishing the time honored saying. "Revenge." The word was sweet.

"He never should have come back." The old man continued. "I'll soon make him regret it."

"Should I give the order?" The subordinate asked.

"I want him alive!" The old man's voice was as harsh as the crack of a whip. Rage filled him that he wouldn't be able to hunt his enemy down himself. He may be beyond that but hell would freeze over before he allowed one of his soldiers the pleasure.

"Bring Troy Martinez to me alive." The old man said once more. "Its about time he caught up with his old friends."

* * *

**((Bring us to the end of another chapter. We're finally introduced to the shadowy figure from Troy's past. A plus to you if you figure out who it is, I've left a few hints that I think is enough to a help a true gta fanatic. ;) **

**In any event things are going to get much more interesting for Troy very soon. Now for Some terminology.  
**

**La Onda: Mexican mafia parody mostly used by Native Gunz but originally from the movie Blood in Blood Out. **

**The Fixer: I'm not sure if I mentioned this before but The Fixer is the same guy that Niko could contact via payphones for assassination missions in gta 4. **

** Anyway that's all for now. Keep tune for the next chapter. It'll be intense if i don't say so myself. :3. As always read, review, enjoy. **


	4. Hit Em Up Part I

**((New chapter! New chapter! Took me a while but I been busy. Anyway, enough chatter. Right into it. :3. But first I've got to say thanks for those that have reviewed so far. It helps with the motivation a lot. And oh, one more thing. The Fixer is not the one who wants Troy dead. The Fixer is Troy's current employer. The old man who has it in for Troy hasn't been named as yet but if you read it over and if you're GTA knowledge is up to par you could probably guess who it is. ;) ))**

Troy rode along slowly with the windows of the car he had acquired from the female Ballas member rolled up. The radio was tuned to West Coast Classic and was currently booming out 'Bad Boys' by Shyne. It was an oldie but still one of Troy's favorite song by his favorite artist. Jamal Shyne Barrow was Belizean as was Troy. Few were aware of Troy's true nationality; he was even in the system listed as an African American but the truth was that Troy had come to America illegally via Mexico at the age of eight. The hitman felt a fleeting of nostalgia when he thought back to Belize. He had only ever been to back to his homeland twice since his early childhood, first at age thirteen then again at age fifteen, but each time had been wonderful. If he ever made it to retirement there was no confusion as to where he would spend his remaining days. Give him a condo in Belize over a retirement house in Florida any day.

While cranking up the radio he gave a quick glance towards the passenger seat beside him. Sitting there was the small arsenal of weapons that he had acquired from the quick trip to Amunation using his Fleeca visa card. While Troy didn't like leaving a paper trail he had only had four hundred plus dollars in cash and had needed two thousand plus dollars worth of equipment so needs must. He once again ran through the list, there was an Ithaca 37 pump action shotgun, an Uzi submachine gun, a Beretta M9 handgun with extended clip, four grenades, and a seven inch long heavy bladed combat knife. To top it all off was the bulletproof vest he was now wearing under his white tees, it made him look bulky and ungainly but he wasn't trying to make a fashion statement; he was trying to stay alive while killing his enemies.

Mid afternoon LS flashed by as Troy kept a heavy foot on the gas, currently cruising down San Andreas Boulevard he was making his way through Murietta Heights. It was mostly an industrial area. The traffic mostly consisted of work trucks and the people hurrying up and down the street mostly wore hard hats and overalls. Troy knew that in about an hour or two he would pass into El Burro Heights, his final destination. It was his military training speaking through him that he had decided to hit the most dangerous target first. MaraBunta Grande 13. The MB13 they called themselves but a lot of people still knew them by their original name: The Truchas. In Troy's mind those guys deserved to be hated and with good reason. Troy had long come to the conclusion that no gang was good. Many had started with good intentions, to defend themselves and their neighborhoods from external threats, but that had been a different sort of gangsters in a different era. Now no matter what any self righteous gangbanger might preach a modern day gang was about dollars, plain and simple. The ones that weren't about dollars didn't last very long, point in case was the Grove Street Family which was now defunct.

Troy was not judging towards most gangs for that, he had spent the majority of his own life doing heinous deeds for money, but the MB13 was not just about money. They did heinous deeds just for the sake of doing heinous deeds. Troy likened them to a blood mad cougar. The same way a crazed cougar sometimes killed more animals than they could possible consume just for a love killing was the same way that MB13 committed crimes just for the sake of committing crimes. Troy grimaced in distaste the more he thought about it. The worst part was that some of The crimes that the Marabunta Grande committed could only be described as evil; it was saying something that their trademarks included gang raping and machete mutilations but they were also big on sex slavery, human trafficking, and it was no secret that a lot of their members kept going to jail for statuary rape. As it was all of that would not have earned Troy's ire, only his dislike, but he had had firsthand experience of the burning hatred that the MB13 bore for black people. They did not restrict their war just towards black gangbangers; any black person was fair game for Marabunta Grande. While many Hispanic gangs operated on the same mantra the MB13 gladly led the charge and because of this in Troy's mind they were the face of the enemy. It was more than just a petty beef between two rival sets, it was nothing more or less than a war of survival between the black and brown race and Troy fancied himself a champion of his ethnicity. Today he planned to strike another blow against the enemy.

The thought made his hands shook, not with fear but with excitement. Despite his earlier misgivings at Burns's house he felt as excited as a kid about to unwrap his first Christmas present. Troy wondered at that, it had always been so. He could find a thousand reasons to justify not killing a man but once he had made up his mind about it there was nothing he enjoyed more. The rush more than the money had been why he had become a hitman. He contemplated upon whether or not that made him a psychopath and then he came to the conclusion that he didn't care one wit. He was doing what made him happy, a lot of people couldn't say so much.

A half hour later Troy was rolling up through El Burro. The transition from Murietta Heights to El Burro was almost comical because they were so different. While Murietta Heights was in every aspects a industrial American neighborhood El Burro looked like a slice of Mexico slapped right there in the middle of Los Santos. Most of the houses in sight were one story shacks and the Mexican flag was to be seen on more than one flagpole and draped across more than one rooftop. A lot of food vendors lined the side of the street selling wares such as tacos and tostados and instead of baseball the barefooted children playing on the street were playing at soccer. It was definitely a residential neighborhood completely and utterly inhabited by Hispanic. Almost a garrison of sorts one could call it. The few black families who had lived there to start with had long been killed or driven out. Troy decided to get his hit done quickly, in such a setting he would stand out like a sore thumb.

The only thing working towards his favor was the fact that it was daylight, even after a thousand cases most people subconsciously refused to believe that harm could befall them during the day. It was a throwback instinct to the days in the cave where the coming of the sun heralded warmth and safety. Troy was planning on giving out a lot of warmth alright. He grinned. By now his heart was racing and his stomach was curling around in knots the way it always did before combat. He seized up the Uzi, marveling the way it fitted perfectly into his hand, and shoved the handgun into his waistband. There was no longer any thinking involved nor any need for him to think further. He was in kill mood and running on pure instinct. The animal in him_ the one that civilized men tried so hard to keep repressed, the one that he had embraced during active duty_ had been stroked and released. It was already blood mad and reveling in the promise of the slaughter to come.

As he drove Troy scanned the sea of tanned faces that were making their way up and down the sidewalks. This time of the day the people out on the street were mostly of the legitimate nature, hard-working stiffs that were trying their best to find the American Dream and content to settle with a pale imitation. Sure more than half of them would have hightailed it if an immigration truck came down the street but they were still just people trying to make ends meet. He detested them but they were not the enemy. They were not the reason why he was there. Despite Burns's urging Troy had no stomach for the random killing of innocents, no he left behavior like that to the MB13.

He found them, the reason why he was there, about ten minutes after entering the rundown gritty neighborhood. The group of them hung out in front of a brick fence on which had been spray painted a large skeleton torso holding up the numbers one and three in either hand above its head. Ten of them. Hispanic all. Not one of them older than twenty five by Troy's best guest. All dressed in varying articles of blue. Two of the group was female. _Cocky Mothafuckas, _Troy thought to himself, _Standing before that wall like everything's all cozy. Fucking wall's like a beacon. Its like they're begging me to come get them. I'm a oblige them too. _ Troy slowly eased himself out of the gentle flow of traffic and parked alongside the sidewalk a distance down from the group. He considered all the subtle ways to approach the situation and then he decided he wasn't much feeling in the mood to be subtle.

The hitman took a deep breath and then he stomped down upon the gas. The car lurched forward like a horse out of its corral. When faced with an unknown situation the average man froze up before his flight and fight instinct kicked in. The deer in the headlight reaction was as normal and automatic as pulling a hand back from a burning iron. It was a reaction that could only be discarded with either a lot of training or a lot of experience. The Mara Bunta gangbangers had neither. Upon seeing the gray Albany speeding towards them from seemingly out of nowhere the group froze for several seconds before reacting. It was the first and the last mistake. He was already shoving the Uzi through the driver's window by the time they realized they were in danger and pulling the trigger by the time they were moving. Three of the bangers fell within the first few seconds of firing.

"Driveby!" One of them bellowed in the midst of diving to the ground. Bullets caught him in midair and he flopped over before landing on his back. He jerked around weakly and gasped for breath while blood leaked from his shredded torso to stain his white wife beater. A young curly haired female banger dressed in a blue cut off shirt and yellow skinny jeans had time to release one shrill scream before bullets ripped her head apart like a melon hit with a sledge hammer. Troy was merciless. He stomped on the breaks and brought the car to a complete halt directly alongside the group and then he waved the gun back and forth in an arc so as to maximize the carnage. The street exploded into instant carnage. A pure wall of sounds assaulted his eardrums as bystanders did everything within their power to escape the killing grounds; screeching tires, honking harms, screams, shouts, cries, objects falling to the ground, and feet slapping on the asphalt. Troy paid them no mind focusing all his killing intent on the ten unlucky MaraBunta members.

Two more of the Mara Bunta members tried to reach under their yellow shirts for weapons. A quick adjustment to Troy's aim quickly fixed their business, within the next second they were sinking to the floor suffering from multiple gunshot wounds. The remaining three, two men and a woman, chose the better part of valor and scattered. With a curse troy exited the vehicle. He took precise aim and then put three bullets into the back of the slowest man, a fourth bullet into the neck of the other, and a last bullet into the shoulder of the woman who had proven herself swifter of feet than her male companions. She fell with a piercing cry. He quickly jogged over to the woman who was trying to crawl away on all fours while sobbing. A savage kick sent her unto her back with a low piteous moan. His heart lurched when he saw that she couldn't be older than nineteen and was quite good looking. She was brown skinned and her features while screwed up with pain and tear streaked were quite attractive. She had a hand pressed tightly over the clean puncture wounds in her shoulder that were still oozing red unto her blue blouse.

"Please don't kill me." She whispered out her eyes wide with fear. "Please don't kill me…"

Troy hesitated with indecision for a full second, mentally he was cursing. It was always a pretty face. He had always had a hard time killing a woman. Anyone who had been banging eventually learned that women in the game were as bad as and sometimes even worse than men. She was an enemy and enemies deserved no mercy. Even with that knowledge his finger trembled as it tensed on the trigger.

"No." She moaned shutting her eyes tightly.

Troy pulled the trigger and watched a bit sickened as the large hole in the center of her forehead gurgled and leaked blood. By the time he heard the boom it was too late. What felt like a truck hit him in the back, tossing him forward and facedown unto the body of the woman he had just killed. The murderer's lips brushed the lips of the victim in a macabre gesture of affection. _If that isn't irony, _Troy thought dully,_ I don't know what is. _

"Fucking tinto!" A voice from above and behind shouted. "Punto pendejo! Was my homies! I'll blow you to pieces!"

The pain was intense, so intense he was barely able to catch his breath, but to not move was to die. With a deep breath Troy quickly spun unto his back. With his head still on the warm belly of the woman's corpse Troy quickly raised his gun and drew a bead on the man approaching him with a still smoking old fashion double barrel shotgun. He was Hispanic of course, and looked every inch the cholo gangster. He was bare-chested and wore only khaki shorts and slippers with long white socks, his black hair was slick with gel and he sported a thick handle bar moustache. On his torso was a large graphic tattoo of a demonic hand pitching the devil's horns symbol. The man's eyes widened and he tried to line up his shotgun for a next shot but Troy proved himself the quicker shot. He plugged the man twice; the first in the throat which caused him to stagger back gurgling from the new hole in his throat and the second in the forehead which sent him down to the ground leaking brains, his life blown out like a light switched off.

"Fucking tintos invading the barrio!" Someone shouted. "Come on eses lets put that fool in the ground!"

"My god he killed Miguel!"

"Let's get this puta negron!"

From his position on the ground Troy could see a group of four male MB13 running towards him from down the street. Another two were coming out of a house exactly across from him. Troy quickly jumped to his feet and ran back towards his car. He managed to slide across the bumper and into the relative safety on the other side just as bullets started slamming into it. Troy ducked deep, maximizing his protective covering. The window above him was blown out and he felt the car vibrating from the impact of the various bullets slamming into it. He took a breath then with quick precise moments he snatched up a grenade from where he had clipped it unto his belt and unpinned it. Troy mentally counted. Upon reaching four he tossed the grenade in a high arch over the top of the vehicle and unto the other side. Not a second later a deafening clap of thunder sounded out every other noise. Screams of pain then followed almost simultaneously with the wailing of car alarms. Troy rolled out from the protective covering of the car, upon finishing his roll he ended up in a battle crouch with one knee on the ground. In a split second he took in the scene of carnage. Three MB13 members lay unmoving and two more were writhing on the ground clutching at grievous injuries.

A shot whizzed past his head so close it burnt his ear. Four more Hispanic gang members were running towards him from a house down the street firing as they came. _Rookies, _Troy thought, _They aren't even in range yet. Tossing away bullets like candies. _Troy lifted his own firearm, held it with both hands, and closed one eye. The rat-tat of Uzi fire once more disturbed what passed for peace in El Burro heights. Three men fell to Troy's barrage before his gun clicked empty. Troy tossed himself back into cover skinning his elbows but saving his life as the enemies finally got within range and bullets began hitting the spot he had just evacuated. It was more luck than anything else which saved Troy's life, as it was his blood still went cold when he felt the bullet whizz past the back of his head. Like a flash of lighting Troy turned to his left and saw that two other gangbangers were approaching him, they had probably jumped a fence to get around his cover. The second shot slammed directly into Troy's chest winding him. With a seamless movement he dropped his empty submachine gun and grabbed the nine from his waistband. As soon as he had raised it he was firing. The two gangbangers dived for cover behind a dumpster giving Troy a few moments breathing room.

"Puto mayata!" A voice snarled from directly behind him.

With no hesitation Troy ducked low. The machete missed his head by a centimeter and instead buried into the car door. The hitman whirled around and fired without aiming; from such a close distance aiming was unnecessary. His bullet caught the bare-chested gangbanger center mass. He sank to the floor groaning and clutching the bullet hole in his sternum. Panic began welling up in Troy. It was time to go. To stay any longer meant he was going to get overrun. He grabbed for his remaining grenade and quickly popped the pin. Troy rolled it under the vehicle he had been using for cover then uttering a quick prayer he sprinted in the opposite direction, across the sidewalk, and towards a chain link fence that was between two buildings.

He ran almost double, keeping his head as low as possible to the ground and with good reason; every time a bullet whizzed past him he cringed inwardly. Then suddenly a large fist punched him in the back with all the force of a locomotive. He flew almost a feet forward and landed smack on his face at the base of the chainlink fence. A resounding boom shattered the air, drowning out all other noises. Troy groggily got to his feet. A quick look behind him showed him a scene out of hell. There was a smoking twisted wreck where a car used to be and bodies in various states of damage were scattered all around the street. The pain filled whimpers and agonized screams of the wounded mixed with the high pitch yowls of car alarm and the quickly rising wail of police sirens to form a macabre symphony. _One down, _Troy thought grimly, _Three to go. _With that he turned and quickly scaled the fence. It was time to get as far from there as possible. He had a feeling the police wouldn't be too gentle when they actually arrived.

* * *

The room was dirty and hot. There was no other furniture besides the bed and a rickety chair. The red carpet probably hid stains that were better off unnamed and the slowly spinning ceiling fan above was more aesthetic than practical. The well dressed old man sat on the bed and stared at the assassin standing behind him with something closed to hunger. In the assassin the old man saw a mirror of himself thirty years previous. Not that they looked similar; the younger man standing behind him was rather short and had tawny brown hair. Despite his obvious trim and fit figure the younger man was rather lightly build. No, they did not share physical resemblance but the old man saw the similarity in the eyes. The Death Glare the older gentleman had named it. It was a look that only one who had killed and killed and killed once more eventually got, and the younger assassin before him had it in spades.

"Niko Bellic," The old man said in his raspy voice. "You come highly recommended."

"I am not proud of my past," The assassin replied. His voice was somber and almost sing-song, even after years in America it still carried the edge of an accent. "But I'm good in this sort of work."

"You tried to stop?" The old man asked curiously.

"I did." Niko replied with a nod of head. "But the past is not like a door, you can't just close it behind you. No matter how far you run and where you hide….it always catches up."

There was a moment of silence where the old man slowly reached for a manila envelope which was at his side.

"His name is Troy Martinez." The old man said handing over the envelope. "Trained by what is now known as Merryweather Security Consulting. You've heard of them?"

"Aye." Niko said taking the folder. "Mercenaries."

"The best that money can buy. And Troy Martinez was one of the best among them. He joined my organization nine years ago…..lets just say he betrayed my trust, not something that I take lightly."

"You want him dead?"

"No! No. I want you to bring him to me alive. I want to look into his eyes when I cut his fucking balls off."

"That's all? And then you'll help me?"

"Niko, you've got my word of honor that if you do this for me I'll take you and your family under my personal protection. None of the Liberty City Costa Nostra would risk a war with my organization, I assure you."

"We have a deal." Niko Bellic announced formally holding his hand out for a shake.

The old man leaned out with an effort filled grunt and quickly seized the younger man's hand for a quick shake.

"Find Troy Martinez," The old man said one last time. "And bring him to me."

"You'll have him." With that Niko turned and exited the room.

**((Okay. That brings us to part one. Three more to go. :D. Enter Niko Bellic, one of the coolest gta protagonist to date. I just couldn't resist bringing him in. Troy definitely earned himself a dangerous enemy on this day. More on Niko's back story up to this point and why he needs the help of Troy's enemy later. As I said, things are going to get interesting. Stay tune.)) **


End file.
